Walking into my favorite country-style restaurant, sitting down in a booth, turning to speak through the wicker partition.
Smivey: “I like musicals.”
Woman: “Excuse me?”
Smivey: “I’m a heterosexual man, and I like musicals.”
Woman: “That’s nice. Have a good day.”
Smivey: “I’m not talking about that pussy shit by Andrew Lloyd Webber. Or that hack work by Baz Luhrmann. I mean the good stuff.”
Woman: “Uh huh.”
Man: What’s wrong, babe?”
Woman: “I don’t know. This guy won’t stop talking about show tunes.”
Man: “Hey, buddy! Shut up, over there.”
Smivey: “West Side Story. Now, that’s a classic. Great choreography. Brilliant songs. Good storyline…”
Woman: “He’s still talking. Make him stop, Brad.”
Man: “Dude, knock it off.”
Smivey: “You know what my favorite is? My Fair Lady. Based on George Bernard Shaw’s play Pygmalion, this jewel has it all…”
Woman: “Brad, switch seats with me.”
Man: “Motherfucker. I’m gonna kick that fruit’s ass!”
Smivey: “With such hits as Get Me To The Church On Time, The Rain In Spain, and of course, Wouldn’t It Be Loverly.”
A large man, wearing a shirt two sizes too small for him, approaches me from the booth next door. And, of course, I begin to sing.
Smivey: “All I want is a room somewhere/ Far away from the cold night air/ With one enormous chair/ Oh, wouldn’t it be loverly…”
Man: Dude, are you fuckin’ mental?
Smivey: “Lots of chocolate for me to eat/ Lots of coal makin’ lots of heat…”
He grabs me by the shirt and yanks me up out of the booth.
Man: “For the last fuckin’ time. Shut the fuck up or I’m gonna punch yer goddam lights out!”
Smivey: “Warm face, warm hands, warm feet/ Oh, wouldn’t it be loverlyyy–!”
That’s all I remember. I woke up about thirty minutes later, strapped to a gurney, with an I.V. in my arm. For three days after that, the only thing I could smell was dried blood. I don’t know why I keep doing these confessionals.
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